Chapter 14: DON’T MOVE - YOUR HEAD’S NEXT
McBridle wasn’t going to be ladylike when she examined the blotched interior of her pricey sedan. The exotic leather was soiled with dirt from his clothes; but for Tom, a verbal spanking for bad behaviour seemed inescapable as he settled comfortably deep into the driver’s seat.
The night fog was thick and heavy as Tom descended from Marsh’s Peak. He leaned into the bird-spotted windshield as he lost sight of the scanty path for a moment and reduced his speed, careful not to drive into the unmoveable trees before pulling back onto the pavement and heading for home.
The air was just as soupy at the bottom as it was near the top of the mountain, and he struggled to maintain sight of the twin dividing lines as he drifted back and forth in the middle of the single lanes.
Without warning a big, black vessel materialized; the driver blasted its bullish foghorn into the swarming mist. The rig was travelling toward him at full speed and was unable to obtain a controlled stop.
Tom shot back into the seat as he saw the thunderous, heavy machine and cranked the wheel hard to the right at the last possible second; however his vehicle caught the jumbo’s square front bumper and running board as he passed on the driver’s side. He fought desperately to control the vehicle and to keep it from jumping the guardrail down a steep embankment of rocks to his death.
There was a sudden calmness in the vaporous air; his hands felt like they were glued to the steering wheel as the car came to a controlled roll a few hundred feet away. He sat numb, afraid to view the damage; then he heard the sounds of floppy feet racing toward him from behind. He tugged his hands off the leather-bound wheel and readjusted the rear-view mirror. It seemed to be the driver of the rig who was followed by another man.
“Hey, pal, ya all right?” the tubby-belly driver called in a boyish tone while he and the other man heaved open the driver’s door.
“Yeah, I think so,” Tom replied as the two men helped him from the vehicle. “Holy macaroni; it’s a bad day to step into a dream,” he said and held his spinning mind from breaking apart. “I should have stayed in bed and stolen forty winks with pay.”
“That’s quite a body bashing,” the fat man said with a cold dead Cuban cigar clamped in his puffy mouth, pointing it toward the scarred automobile.
The entire driver’s side of the sedan was flattened, the paint was chewed to the bare metal over the entire length of the vehicle, and the front and rear bumpers were deformed and appeared as if they were going to hop off at any second.
Tom held his mouth, “Damn it. Now I’m in deep trouble with my lady friend.”
“You came out of nowhere you crazy kook,” the fat truck driver belted out insultingly.
“Ya crazy kook-head--that’s what ya are. What ya trying to do; dance us into an early grave and give us high-test heart attacks?" the thin man barked from behind the heavy man’s well-fed girth.
Tom exhausted an apologetic breath, “I’ll get the insurance papers; and then you guys can be on your way.”
The untidy driver bellied forward, “I wished you didn’t.”
“Why’s that?” Tom seemed surprised.
“Business reasons of an unfriendly sort.”
“Something you don’t want the authorities to know about?”
“Between us, and only us, I’m laded down with an illegal shipment of corn water; and I don’t want any encounters with the law,” the driver patted his worn-in, stretched-out, hunting jacket, “if you know what I mean.”
Tom tensed up, an act to conceal his gleeful reaction. “Look, let’s just forget the whole thing ever happened.”
“A very smart young city boy,” the heavy driver said with a grin. “Let us say goodnight and sleep tight; and may we only meet,” he paused as if in thought, “never again.”
Tom swallowed a ball of relief that tried to escape from his throat. “That’s perfectly all right with me. You never saw me nor did I see you. That’s a good deal.”
“Like the sweet price of a fifty-cent turnip,” the driver replied.
“We saw neither you nor your hairy-chested mama,” the thin man said jokingly as he followed his fat boss to the rig.
Tom got back into the wrecked luxury sedan; the tires spun and he was off.
When he returned home, he wondered how he would explain this unforeseen fiasco to McBridle. He parked in his driveway and practiced his fake excuse; then he went into the house.
He switched on the television and clicked to the news channel before he collapsed on the couch.
There was a loud, annoying soap commercial blazing, which was followed by a calm news flash. The anchorperson made his professional delivery.
Tom massaged his aching temples and sat back.
“Coming from a source inside Carravecky and Sons Aerospace Technology,” the newsman reported, “classified documents concerning a weapon system in development for the past ten years had been leaked to outside sources. According to the Defence Department, funding for this project was halted four years ago to comply with the World Weapons Accord on Weapons of Mass Destruction. At this time, it’s not clear whether these weapons are nuclear, biological, conventional or a complete new technology.
“There has been no comment from Robert Carravecky, the company’s President and CEO, but it is expected the corporation will make a formal statement in the coming days.”
He cleared his motoring throat, “Today, the company’s spokesperson stated, ‘The concerned matter is under strict investigation;’ but, as of now, what we do know about this internal report is that it documented two security breaches and focused on classified data in the company’s main research and development computers, which, we assume, were targeted by intruders. It is expected the Federal Bureau will investigate, and we will be following that Secret Service story. For channel forty-five news, I’m...”
Tom abruptly switched off the television. “This is all I need right now,” he moaned, and closed his irritated eyes to rest.
The telephone rang. He was slow to pick it up. “Yeah, hello,” he answered without much concern for politeness.
“Is this Tom Bronze?” the caller inquired.
“Yeah, who’s this?” Tom responded quickly.
“This is Samuel Carravecky.”
Tom was silent.
“We met at the company’s board meeting yesterday.”
There was another moment of silence between them.
“And what can I do for you?” Tom inquired after he repositioned the phone closer to his ear.
“I need your help.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“No, I mean, yes... maybe,” he said nervously. “I need you to meet me at the corner of Forth and Eighth in thirty minutes?”
“That’s midtown; I can’t make it.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“Why? What’s the matter? Why can’t we talk on the phone?”
“I need to meet with you in person.”
“I’m kind of busy right now and don’t have time for a walk in the park.”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that; I promise. Please.”
“What then?”
“I’ve got something important to give you.”
“What is it? Maybe I can get it from you tomorrow?”
“Bronze, don’t amuse me; just meet me on the corner of Forth and Eighth in thirty minutes. You won’t be wasting your time and don’t be late,” he said, as he hung up.